The Brotherhood of Dwarves: Book 04 - Between Dark and Light

by D. A. Adams

  Chapter 9

  Unleash the Dark One

  Roskin, Krondious, and Bordorn stood before the court of King Johreon the Red while the crowded room celebrated their success at subduing Alganeon. Krondious seemed uneasy at the attention, and Roskin seemed annoyed by the waste of time, but Bordorn soaked in the applause. Throughout his life, he had felt disconnected from his people, even while living in the valley, so for him, the recognition was most welcome. He almost wished he could stay there and take his place as part of his cousin’s court.

  For most of his youth, he had dreamed of becoming a great warrior, one of the heroes who expelled the Great Empire from his homeland. Now, however, after having fought in real battles and having seen Roskin and Krondious for himself, he had grown to recognize he was not a true warrior. They were built for combat – Krondious with his unnatural power and Roskin with his grace and speed. At best, Bordorn might develop into an above average swordsman, but he would never be great. Despite the pangs of pain in his chest from that admission, he accepted that his contributions would have to come in different forms.

  “Cousin,” the king said, motioning for the crowd to silence. “You’ve done better than I could’ve hoped. Rounding up the entire group, that’s quite impressive.”

  “Thank you, my king,” Bordorn returned, bowing at the waist. “But these two are the real heroes.”

  “Please, step forward,” Johreon the Red said, waving at Roskin and Krondious. The two Kiredurks advanced and stopped between Bordorn and the king. “I’m guessing you are Roskin, son of Kraganere.”

  “The Eighth Kingdom salutes the House of Johreon,” Roskin said, bowing as Bordorn had.

  “And who are you?” the king asked Krondious.

  “I’m a lumberjack,” the dwarf replied, obviously out of place.

  The room filled with laughter, and Bordorn felt as if he should defend his friend.

  “A lumberjack, eh?” the king asked, chuckling too.

  “He’s too modest,” Roskin interjected before Bordorn could. “He’s my personal bodyguard and once killed a cave troll with one strike.”

  “That so?” the king asked, growing serious. The laughter in the room faded.

  “It’s not so hard,” Krondious mumbled, shuffling his feet and staring down. “If you know where to hit them.”

  “You are too modest,” the king added. “It’s decided. Tonight, we feast in honor of the troll slayer.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Roskin said. “We’d like to head on to inspect this other problem you have.”

  The king arched an eyebrow, and for a moment his eyes flickered with anger. Bordorn scrutinized his face, alarmed by the expression. The king glanced at him and quickly composed himself, changing his appearance to one of hurt.

  “My king,” Bordorn said, stepping forward. That look unsettled him, but he couldn’t quite place why. “Our troops await us. Perhaps, if it pleases your highness, once this peril has passed, we can return for your hospitality.”

  Johreon the Red tapped his fingers on the marble and studied the three dwarves. A broad smile then stretched across his face.

  “You are quite right, cousin,” he said. “There will be time for parties later. I’ve arranged a guide to lead you to the base of the mountain. She’s from that area and can explain the problem better than I.”

  Bordorn bowed again, and Roskin and Krondious followed his lead.

  “When you return, I’ll have handpicked a regiment to follow you to the valley. Good luck and good hunting.”

  With that, the king called for his page and ordered the dwarf to lead them to the guide’s house. The page saluted and motioned for the three to follow him. They bowed to the king once more and followed him into the hallway. The dwarf marched swiftly, guiding them through the castle to the north exit, where their horse already waited at the stable. The other horses had been left in Horseshoe Bend with the Ghaldeons. Outside, the page hurried through the streets, not even glancing back to make sure they were still behind him. The three matched his pace easily, for Roskin had driven them much harder, but the page’s demeanor bothered Bordorn. This disrespect was no way to treat a dwarf of Roskin’s stature. Between the brief look of anger on the king’s face and this treatment, Bordorn sensed something was amiss, but whatever it was still eluded him.

  At a small, wooden house near the edge of town, the page stopped and knocked forcefully. After a couple heartbeats, he knocked again even harder. A voice called from within, and the page growled for her to hurry. The door opened slightly, and an elderly dwarf glanced through the thin slit. The page told her that the travelers were ready to depart, and a look of anxiousness came over her as she babbled that she wasn’t ready. The page didn’t argue, instead excusing himself and turning back for the castle. The old dwarf stood at the thin opening, obviously confused and scared, and Roskin had turned to watch the page leave, his face scrunched with rage. Krondious shrugged at Bordorn and shook his head.

  “Ma’am,” Bordorn said, bowing more deeply than he had for the king. “Please, forgive us. We were led to believe you were expecting us.”

  “Well, I was,” she said softly. “But tomorrow.”

  “We didn’t mean to disturb you,” Bordorn continued. “We’ll come back in the morning.”

  Roskin turned to face him, his eyes bulging.

  “No, no,” the old dwarf said. “Give me time to gather my things, and I’ll be right out.”

  She shut the door, leaving them on the step. Bordorn faced Roskin, who now trembled with anger.

  “Is this a joke?” Roskin asked. “Because it’s not very funny.”

  “I had no idea she would be our guide,” Bordorn returned.

  “How old is she, anyway?” Roskin huffed.

  Krondious walked back to where the horse stood in the street, and Bordorn held Roskin’s gaze.

  “We’re wasting time.”

  “I know, Pepper Beard. What do you want me to do about it?”

  The door opened, and the old dwarf emerged, dressed in farmer’s clothes with a backpack across her shoulders and a walking stick in hand. She no longer looked afraid but rather like someone who had seen more than her share of difficulties. She asked if they were ready, and they nodded, so she headed to the street and turned north. Bordorn followed her, and Roskin walked behind him. Krondious stayed in the rear, leading the horse through the city streets.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” the old dwarf said without looking back or breaking stride. “But I’m eighty.”

  “How’s that?” Bordorn asked.

  “The rude one asked how old I am. Well, I’m eighty, and I’ve walked more miles than all three of you combined.”

  Behind them, Krondious chuckled, and Bordorn stifled a smile.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” Roskin said. “I was just expecting...”

  “Someone young? Let me tell you, the young are too scared to make this trip.”

  At that, she fell silent, and Bordorn glanced back at Roskin, who glared at him. Bordorn winked at his friend, but Roskin didn’t change his expression, so Bordorn looked forward. The guide led them across the bridge marking the end of town and down the dirt road snaking along the narrow valley floor. She cautioned them to mind their surroundings, for she would not be waiting on them, and they would have to find their own way back. Bordorn thought that odd but didn’t speak. Something was definitely wrong with this entire task, and he needed to figure out what.

  Along the valley, farms lined the numerous streams that flowed from the mountains, and up the steep slopes, elaborate terraces of stone and wood filled the landscape. From his family, Bordorn had heard of these farms and their efficiency on the difficult terrain, but seeing them for himself sparked a deep sense of pride for his people. The Kiredurks and Tredjards had burrowed underground to escape the harshness of their environments, but the Ghaldeons had learned to thrive on lands inhospitable to most living things.

  As autumn had
settled, most of the terraces were filled with dwarves gathering the harvest, and none seemed to notice the four dwarves passing through. If time hadn’t been against them, Bordorn would’ve liked to stop and chat with them, to know more of his western kin. But the guide showed no interest in stopping, and Roskin would’ve drawn a blade on him if he’d caused another delay, so he marched steadily, observing what he could and imagining their lives. During his time in the valley, he had farmed plenty and now missed the simplicity of a life bound to good earth and hard labor. He vowed to himself he would return to these lands once the war was over and build a farm of his own.

  From the steep slopes, evening came early, and the guide found a campsite under a canopy of healthy cottonwoods. She inspected the trees for dead limbs, explaining how easily they could snap off, even from the slightest breeze and, once satisfied the limbs were sound, unpacked her bedding. Roskin and Krondious gathered kindling and firewood from the ground, and Bordorn retrieved stones from a nearby stream for the fire pit. Within a few minutes, the group had a blazing fire and began cooking their supper.

  “Can you tell us more about whatever this is we’re hunting,” Roskin asked, stretching out on the dry grass.

  “It lives on the eastern slope of Mount Delkhun. I’ve never seen it myself.”

  “What is it?” Bordorn asked.

  “I’ve only heard stories,” she said, her voice distant. “Some say it’s a dragon. Others call it a serpent. I’ve never met anyone who’s actually seen it.”

  “Dragons, huh?” Roskin huffed.

  “You can mock me, rude boy, but I have seen the skeletons of cattle and soldiers it’s picked clean. Nothing left, not even hair.”

  “I’m not mocking you. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’ll get you to the trailhead. After that, you’re on your own, and may mercy guide you from there.”

  “The king said something about an elf,” Bordorn said.

  The old dwarf looked at him, her eyes wide.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Lorac,” she whispered. “Do yourselves a favor. If you see him, turn a different direction and don’t look back.”

  “Why’s that?” Krondious asked, flipping the sausages in the skillet.

  “You look like you’ve seen some battle, but you’ve never met the likes of him.”

  “Lorac,” Roskin mumbled. Deep inside, the dark fear stirred.

  ***

  Kwarck dropped his fork on his plate and clutched his chest with his right hand. The others at the table stared, and Crushaw rushed to his side. With his left arm, he gripped the general’s elbow and looked into his eyes, unable to speak. Alysea knelt beside him and wiped the sudden sweat from his forehead. He took a deep breath and relaxed, and slowly, the pain in his chest subsided. He eased his grip on Crushaw and whispered thanks to Alysea.

  “What was that?” Crushaw asked.

  “It’s Roskin,” Kwarck said. “He’s in grave danger.”

  “From what?” Crushaw prodded, his body tensing.

  “An ancient elf who lives deep in the western mountains. I don’t know what he’s doing that far west.”

  “Lorac?” Stahloor asked, his voice grim.

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s Lorac?” Alysea asked.

  “A Koorleine who’s banished from our people,” Stahloor said. “He was sent away two hundred years ago.”

  “Why?” Crushaw asked.

  “He lost his mind,” Stahloor responded. “I won’t speak of what he did in front of my daughter, but your friend is in danger.”

  “Please, excuse me,” Kwarck said, rising from the table. “I need to warn Roskin.”

  “Yes, of course,” Stahloor said, also rising. “I’ll search for Lorac, too. If I can, I’ll block him from sensing Roskin.”

  “No, this is beyond your powers,” Kwarck said, stopping and facing Stahloor. ”Don’t risk letting him in your head.”

  Stahloor relented, and Kwarck staggered outside and made his way to his well. He hadn’t even considered that Roskin would venture near Lorac, the Dark One. The oldest and most powerful elves used their energies to keep him from the minds of the young, but with Roskin getting so close, they might not be able to protect him. If Lorac got a hold on the young half-elf, there was no predicting what damage might result. Kwarck knelt by the well and pressed his forehead against the cool stone. He cleared his mind and focused all his energy. An image of a grove of cottonwoods slowly came to him, and he saw the four gathered around their fire, eating supper.

  ***

  As Roskin took a bite of sausage, the dark fear that had filled him dissolved into an image of Kwarck by his well. A warm sensation filled him, and the sounds of the wind rustling the cottonwood leaves disappeared, and much like when he had been strapped to the whipping post, he no longer felt as if he were in his own body. Instead, he floated over the trees with Kwarck beside him.

  “Beware of Lorac,” the hermit said. “Don’t let him in.”

  “How?”

  “If you feel a strange sensation, fight against it.”

  “Who is he?”

  “There’s no time to explain. Please, trust me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You must. Avoid him at all...”

  As quickly as Kwarck had appeared, he vanished, and Roskin was back beside the fire. The warm sensation had also evaporated, replaced by a deep cold. Roskin shivered and pulled his tunic tighter against him. He searched his thoughts for the dark fear, but it too had departed. He looked at Bordorn and Krondious, who stared at him blankly.

  “Where’d you go, Pepper Beard?”

  “I don’t know. Is anyone else cold?”

  “Your friend is quite peculiar,” the guide said to Bordorn.

  Roskin glared at her, anger rushing through him. He imagined taking his sword and running her through to watch the life drain from her eyes. Then, she wouldn’t be so self-righteous. He looked at the horse, where his sword hung in its scabbard and wondered if he could get to it before the others stopped him. He caught himself and pushed away the thoughts. Why was he suddenly so angry at this old dwarf? He hadn’t felt anger like this in all his life. And the cold ran to his bones.

  “Can someone get me a blanket?” he asked.

  Krondious retrieved one from the horse and wrapped it around him. Roskin thanked him and moved as close to the fire as he could, curling into the fetal position. The others stared at him, and their expressions disgusted him. Who were they to judge him? He closed his eyes to block them out and tried to remember what had happened just before the cold enveloped him, but his last memory was muttering the name Lorac.

  Welcome, son of Sylva.

  “What?” Roskin asked, sitting up and looking at the others.

  “We didn’t say anything,” Bordorn said. “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t play games with me,” Roskin snarled.

  We’ll be good friends, I can already tell.

  Roskin looked around the grove of trees to find the source of the voice, but other than rustling leaves, nothing was there. He looked back at the others, hatred for them filling his heart. Their mouths hung open and eyes widened.

  Sleep now, son of Sylva. We’ll meet soon enough.

  Much like the cold had descended on him, he felt strangely more tired than he had since the plantation. He curled up beside the fire and was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

  ***

  “I’ve lost all connection to Roskin,” Kwarck said, entering the kitchen, his voice hollow and defeated.

  “I have to get to him,” Crushaw said, standing so abruptly he knocked over his chair.

  “There’s nothing any of us can do,” Kwarck said, slumping in his own seat. “He’s on his own.”

  “Against Lorac?” Stahloor whispered. “Alysea, please go to your room.”

  The young elf obeyed without question while Crushaw paced around the kitchen.

  “Let’s go outside,” Stahloor sa
id. “She doesn’t need to hear this, but he does.”

  Kwarck nodded and followed them outside. His plans had fallen into place perfectly – the nomads had arrived and were handling the harvest; Crushaw was hardening the elves into a terrifying military force; and Roskin was inspiring the Ghaldeons to fight against tyranny. All had seemed perfect, but he had failed Roskin. He should’ve warned him before he ventured to Kehldeon, but Kwarck never dreamed Roskin would go that far west. They walked back to the well, and Stahloor turned to face Crushaw.

  “Over two hundred years ago, Lorac was a respected elder of the Koorleine. But something happened to him. Only the oldest know what, and they won’t share their knowledge. Whatever it was, it drove him insane. He butchered his entire village, including his own children. I’ll spare you the details.”

  “I remember it like it was yesterday,” Kwarck muttered. “I was young then, living in the Loorish Forest to learn the healing ways.”

  From the direction of one of the camps around the perimeter, a figure approached swiftly, and all three turned to face it.

  “Why can’t I feel my son?” Sylva asked, her voice trembling in the dim of twilight.

  “Sylva, you must remain calm,” Kwarck said.

  “Tell me,” she nearly screamed.

  “I believe Lorac has taken him,” Kwarck said, nearly choking on the words.

  “No!”

  Kwarck embraced her, using all of his energy to calm her, and she struggled at first, but as he poured all of his serenity into her, she relaxed and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Not my son,” she sobbed.

  “I need to know more about this elf,” Crushaw said, his entire body tensing.

  “Like I said, I was young,” Kwarck said, still holding Sylva. “It happened in the middle of the night, and every elf in the Loorish Forest awoke from the feeling. It was sickening, like poison coursing through our minds. We saw it all, through his eyes. I, too, will spare you those details.